Gone
by justcallmesmitty
Summary: [NOW COMPLETE!] "Rolling over, he catches the smell of her. Fragrant. Lovely. Wild. He trails his hand over the pillow next to him. Gone." Francis wakes in the night after Mary leaves. Story continues from there. Post-108. Francis, Greith initially; rest of the gang in later chapters. Rated T for sensuality/other content.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

_Running, always running, but he never catches her. The clack of hooves racing down the avenue of trees sounds further and further into the distance. He sinks to his knees, blinded by the pain. "Mary!" he screams one last time, but she is gone._

He bolts upright in bed, a cold sweat sticking to his frame and the bedcovers twisted near his feet. Every time he falls asleep, he wakes to the same dream and the realization washes over him anew that she is gone.

Rolling over, he catches the smell of her. Fragrant. Lovely. Wild. He trails his hand over the pillow next to him. _Gone_.

The night still lies dark around him, greeting him, welcoming him into its folds. It would be easy to wallow here, to be lost in the anger and the sorrow that trade off places with one another. But he can't help hearing her voice echo off the walls of the room, one of those last things she had spoken before they had found Aylee.

_I want you to know, whatever happens, that I love you._

He wonders if he can trust that and recalls both the earnestness and fear in her eyes.

_She wanted to make sure I knew because she was afraid – but of what?_

None of it makes sense and his anger begins to swell. She was supposed to be here tonight, _with him. Husband and wife._

Every word and every moment race before his eyes, each more maddening than the last – those of the last few days the most vivid, the most sharp to his heart.

_Her anger with him for returning for her when he wasn't supposed to do so. The pressure of her hands firmly pushing against his chest._

_"Never" escaping her lips – finally granting him the chance to make her his own._

_Her shrieks at the feel of his teasing fingers. _

_The smooth ivory of her skin. _

_The quiet moments stolen over days and in between his bedcovers._

_"I want you," she had said, completely trusting him with her future. _

_The dizzy way he felt as he spun her around, rejoicing in her "yes."_

_And that last morning – her mood sullen, as if she were haunted by something. So much talk about fate, about gods and having too much already when she ought to have been overjoyed about the wedding. She made a point to assure him it wasn't politics, so what was it? _

_Whatever happens …_

Francis curses, forcing himself to get out of bed though it is still dark. To lie there without her is too painful. Dressing, he makes his way to the kitchens, hoping to find something to eat. He discovers one of the kitchen hands beginning the day's loaves. The hand bows, acknowledging the other's presence.

"May I help you, your highness?"

Francis sighs, realizing that likely no one can truly help him.

"Unless you have answers for me that I can live with, I could use some water and something small to eat."

"Certainly, your highness."

The hand moves about the kitchen, procuring the items and setting them on the table.

"Sit and eat. Tell me your troubles while I knead loaves."

Francis arches an eyebrow, taken aback by the young man's forthrightness. "I don't even know your name and I'd rather not speak of my troubles."

He sits anyway, enjoying the solid nature of the stool beneath him. He refuses to be coddled, neither by a seat nor by anyone else.

"Leith, your highness. My name is Leith."

"Well, Leith, thank you for the water and the food. I am sure that you have heard all about my troubles, however."

Leith's countenance grows dim.

"Yes, I have. Someone I love also lost a dear friend in the Lady Aylee. Between that and the Queen Mary's departure, she has been entirely inconsolable."

Francis finds his curiosity heightened. Who would this young man know so well as to be affected by the same death? His gaze fixes on the window, searching the horizon for the first signs of sunrise but there are none. Everything is still black.

Sensing that the crown prince is, as expected, not wanting to chatter, Leith decides to continue filling the silence and speak freely of the details.

"I've been spending time with Greer of Kinross, you see, your highness."

The pieces begin to fall in place for Francis. Greer, untitled, had become involved with a kitchen hand. Perhaps this Leith knew more …

"Greer, you say? You've seen her since … " His words falter. He is uncertain of how to address the events of the last day. Leith nods, moving onto his next set of loaves and spreading new flour to coat the worktable.

"Yes, I've seen her." Leith's eyes grow sad, remembering Greer's convulsive sobbing when he had ventured to her door the night before. "She is so terribly sad. When her grief subsides, she starts mumbling something about a prophecy and rambling over how Mary didn't want anyone to know. And then she cries some more." He pats a loaf and sighs.  
"I can't make head nor tail of it at all."

Francis' head snaps up at the mention of both a prophecy and Mary's name. Leith notices, placing the last loaf to rise under a cloth.

"Your highness?"

"Take me to Greer's rooms." His determined expression surprises Leith.

"Your highness, I don't think ... It's not even light yet."

Francis rises and forcefully repeats his words.

"Yes, your highness." Leith bows and wipes his fingers on a nearby towel before heading toward the door. "This way."

The two walk in silence, the halls eerie in the early hours. Leith eventually slows his gait and motions to a door. Without hesitation, Francis throws himself at it, his beatings upon its panels reverberating through the empty corridor.

"Greer! Greer!" his voice cries, cracking from emotion and exhaustion, hoping to rouse the girl from her sleep. It feels good to hit something, flesh fighting wood, the grain stinging his hand.

Footfalls eventually come toward the door. It swings open to reveal Greer in her nightclothes, wrapped in a dressing robe. Her eyes wide, frightened but still swollen. Her frame trembles. She looks to the side, astonished to find Leith the prince's companion.

Leith crosses to her, catching her elbow and leaning in to whisper.

"He just wants to talk to you about something. Don't worry," he kisses her temple. "Nothing new has happened." His voice soothes, calming her anxious thoughts.

"Very well, then," she speaks. The words catch in her throat a bit. She motions them inside, to sit by the fireplace, which is the only remaining light in the room.

"What happened, Greer?"

He wastes no time, wanting to get to the bottom of this insidious well of unknowing. She freezes, wondering why he would come to her. Silence. Vast uneasy silence.

"What happened, Greer?" He nearly shouts the question with its second asking. "Why did Mary leave?"

Afraid, Greer begins to shake. She tries to play it off, mumbling some nonsense about England. Leith grabs for her hand, hoping to steady her.

"I don't believe you." Francis' voice turns cold. "She said it wasn't politics." He looks to Greer, registering for the first time her fearful state. His anger drains, his sorrow returning as he looks at the girl before him. "Greer," he pleads. "Please tell me why she left."

She looks to Leith and he nods gently. Francis sees her breathe in and exhale in preparation for whatever she has to say. He finds himself holding onto his last breath.

"She didn't want us to say anything."

Pause. Greer's eyes beg to be able to stop, but she continues. He deserves to know.

"Nostradamus shared with her some things. Terrible things. She tried to put it out of her mind, but she couldn't. Not after Aylee was found. He knew one of us would die yesterday, Francis. _Nostradamus knew_. So she chose to believe him about the rest."

"The rest of what, Greer? What did Nostradamus tell her?"

Fear invades every point of her eyes, tears pooling and preparing to spill.

"He told her your union would cost you your life."

Spent, Greer's face collapses into tears. Tears for Aylee. Tears for Mary. Tears for Francis, sitting before her trying to make sense of it all.

Anger returns. _Superstition? She threw this all away on superstition?_

But then he remembers the fear in Mary's eyes, the way she refused to let him comfort her after they found Aylee.

_Mother._

The three remain there, nothing else passing among them. The sunlight begins to pour though the window, illuminating the room and its shadows.

Francis stands, offering Greer his hand.

"Thank you, Greer. I think it is time we left you." Determined to assure her, he adds emphatically. "I won't let her go so easily. I will bring her back to us. Please let me know if I can do anything to bring you comfort." He turns to Leith. "I suspect it is time for you to be back in the kitchens?"

Leith nods, reluctant to leave Greer alone, but he follows Francis to the door and they set off for the kitchens.

"Are you going to rest, your highness?" Leith ventures, noticing the steely look upon Francis' face.

"No, I am not," Francis replies firmly. "I am going to find Nostradamus, my mother and then my father – in that order."

Because someone was going to pay for Mary leaving, and it wasn't going to be him.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thanks for reading. Review to let me know what you think and whether you'd like me to continue. It might be an interesting way to move forward through the hiatus. :)


	2. ONE: Necessary Lengths

**ONE: Necessary Lengths**

Only a door stands between him and his mother's fate. He smiles callously at the irony. _Fate_. Such a simple word with so many unwanted implications.

Her guard eyes him suspiciously as he prepares for what is to come, for what he feels unavoidable and necessary. Kings were born to make tough decisions, after all, and he has already made his.

Nostradamus had cowered when Francis appeared in the infirmary that morning. He understood from one look at the prince's face that Francis knew of the prophecy and of his conversations with Mary before her departure.

But he took the prince's questions like a man. He answered openly, not shying away from honesty regarding his visions, even as the future king called him a heretic and a deceiver. Evasive though he tried to be, he could not hide from Francis the queen's involvement. Francis already knew. The seer offered no fight when a guard was sent for to bind him and remove him to the jails. It was the risk he had run in accepting employment at Court. The time for judgment had come.

Francis knows his mother is inside, catching pieces of her humming some insipid tune. Though the last days have brought several surprises, she still does not deviate from her routine. By his calculation, she has just finished breakfast and soon will leave to confer with Nostradamus before meeting Henry in the throne room. She knows not that her son waits outside her door, full of wrath and ready for vengeance.

Regardless, the time has come to enter her rooms. He has hesitated long enough, acknowledging what this will cost his family, his brothers.

It pales in comparison to what it has already cost him.

He pushes on the door with more force than expected, sending it crashing open upon his mother as she finishes her breakfast. She looks up, startled to see her son, especially in what is obviously a fit of anger.

"Francis?" She plays coy, innocent, certain he is being moody and knows nothing of what she has done. "Is everything all right?"

"No, Mother," he grits through his teeth. "It is not." He closes the door behind him, the guard nodding on the other side in remembrance of what Francis had spoken to him moments earlier.

_"You might hear shouting. This is a conversation my mother and I need to have. We are not to be disturbed, do you understand?" _

"My dear son, I know your heart is broken. Tell me what I can do to help."

The sweet timbre of her voice causes his blood to boil. This is no time for pleasantries.

"I know what you've done, Mother." He does his best to remain calm, knowing that he must deliver his whole message before letting his emotions overtake him.

She has yet to realize that he actually knows, still feigning no responsibility for what has transpired. "I don't know what you speak of, son. What have I done?"

She glances at him, eyes wide, ever the doting mother. He nearly loses it at the sight.

"I know it all. Nostradamus. The prophecy. Mary. You did this!"

The volume of his voice begins to rise, blood pumping more vigorously through his body.

"Francis, I-" she starts to speak, but he is quick to cut her off.

"No! I told you, Mother! I told you that if anything happened to her, I wouldn't need proof and that you would lose me. Did you not understand the consequences of your meddling?" He realizes he is going to lose it, control be damned.

Catherine's face reveals her shock and fear, her mind scrambling to be able to explain away whatever it is that her son now thinks he knows, but she cannot speak. There are no words that will assuage the wrathful brokenness of her son.

"I don't need proof, but I have it. He is chained below in the jails, with a sentence that will likely be brought for sorcery and treason against this family. Your beloved seer is locked away!" Spittle flies from his mouth, his distaste for her plotting evident.

He approaches her, closing the short distance between, and the realization of Nostradamus' fate dawns in her eyes. In his anger, Francis draws himself to his full height and towers over her, glowering. He shoves his signet finger, reminding her of the power he will one day possess, in her face.

"You took her from me. I am hers and she is mine - it has been so since we were six! You took her from me. You had no right!"

Catherine sees her son's heart break once more before her, his struggle to keep himself in check sliding toward failure. He is about to become unhinged, but she grasps for a thought, any thought, desperate to divert his attentions.

"She is just a girl, Francis! You speak as though you were already married!" She reaches for his arm but he pushes her away.

"Perhaps in the eyes of God we already are."

She does not expect his words, this blow. Nostradamus' words return to her and her surprise cannot be hidden at the knowledge the two have already been united. He pauses, discovering an unexpected sense of calm at his admission, before he tells his mother what will be required of her.

"When Mary returns, we will wed and you will no longer be here to stop it."

"She is still the one who left, Francis!" Her pleas form her last effort to convince her son to reconsider his position. "Surely, you can't believe that she loves you!"

Any last bit of compassion toward his mother vanishes from his eyes. Mary's words do not leave him. They never will.

_I want you to know ... _

He realizes his mother has no remorse whatsoever. There is no turning back for either of them now.

"It doesn't matter, Mother. I love _her_, despite all that she has done."

He feels the last bit of control vanishing with his compassion. His urgency to leave heightens, but there remains one thing to be said.

"I have not yet told Father." A look of relief crosses his mother's face and tempts him to pity her. "I have not yet, but I will come tomorrow morning. I suggest you leave before then." He pauses, expecting protest but hearing none.

"He will not show you the mercy I have. You have lost him England and you have lost me Mary. There is no longer a place here for you at Court."

He turns to leave. There is no goodbye. He escapes through the door and past the guard. As the door closes, he hears glass break and the clatter of something heavy crashing to the ground. Assuming she has upended a table in frustration, he walks away.

* * *

He finds his father the following morning, comfortably resting in the throne room, with no one present save a handful of guards.

"Francis! I didn't expect to see you this morning. Have you seen your mother?"

The question expected, Francis ignores it, trusting that they will arrive at its true answer later.

"Not since yesterday, Father. I do, however, have an inquiry to make of you."

Francis' demeanor is not lost on his father. The mixed and mounting emotions read easily upon his face. Henry motions for Francis to continue.

"If Mary were proven to be not at fault for her actions, would you reinstate the treaty and permit our marriage?"

This is not a question Henry expects, though he realizes quickly Francis has prepared for its asking. He clarifies, "You must mean, of course, if she can be found?"

His son nods in assent.

"And who, then, do you believe to be at fault for this diplomatic debacle before the Church and my court?"

The moment has come and Francis has indeed planned well for it, though a small piece of his heart pangs with pity for his mother as the recipient of his father's wrath.

"The responsibility rests upon the seer, Nostradamus, and upon my mother."

* * *

**Author's Note**: So much great feedback and so many wishes for me to continue! Thanks, everyone - I'm excited to have a little something to fill my time over the hiatus. This won't be particularly long as a fic, as I don't want to be too overreaching into the storylines to come (it's all already outlined, because I make a mean outline).

It will be equal parts speculation and wishful thinking, which is what us Team Frary folk are known for (and if you haven't realized by now that I'm a complete Frary fan, then you haven't been paying attention to anything else I've written). Hopefully, you'll enjoy it! :)

**Disclaimer**: I may have forgotten to mention this in the prologue, but I have no ownership of "Reign," its characters or its storylines. Any similarities when the show returns in January are either rooted in images or brief words from the promo for the show's return and/or are purely coincidence and unintended. I have no inside pull or 1x08 would have ended with a wedding.


	3. TWO: Southward

**TWO: Southward**

_She looks back as she hears his footfalls running to catch her. The confusion on his face requires no interpretation. She had said she would wait for him, but she had lied. Shaking, she manages to mount her horse. She must leave now or she will not be able to - not with him plaintively screaming her name behind her. Her feet tap the horse and he begins to lurch forward, settling into the rapid pace set by Bash up ahead. She closes her eyes against the pain. One last scream chases her.__  
_

She curls into herself, newly awakened from her dream. It never changes, the same memory replaying itself in her head every night. Unable to control the tears washing upon her face and the sobs shaking her body, she pulls the bedclothes tighter against the night's chill. His voice, his screaming, is always with her.

Bash had hoped a change in sleeping arrangements might help her actually sleep, having been awakened himself by her sobs as they encamped in the forest while traveling southward - but it has provided no comfort nor better rest for Mary.

She realizes she hasn't slept alone for nearly a fortnight, especially in a bed. The woods had provided hard ground and penance for her flight, for the brokenness of the man she left behind.

In this bed, however, she notices his absence more keenly. There is no smell of him upon the sheets, no gentle stroking of her arm as she wakes. Even in a place she has never ventured, the emotions and memories catch up to her in a way she hopes he does not. _He cannot_.

For five days, she and Bash had journeyed south to Marseille. They kept off the main roads, opting to ride close by amongst the trees. Certain Mary would be expected to head north to return to Scotland, they little anticipated they would encounter search parties but, just in case, they wanted to keep out of sight. Too many of his father's men would recognize Bash, who had been one of them for many years.

Four of those days, the pair rode in complete silence. They stopped only long enough to barter Mary's pearls and gems one by one, to feed both themselves and their horses. Bash never pressed her for the reason she had left and she, in turn, did not pester him. The days stretched long, but they steadily made their way toward the southern port.

And, for those four days, she relived every word, every moment she had shared with Francis, over and over again. The sharpness of the images, of his words, did not fade with the increasing distance between them.

_Her first glimpse of him, striding up to her outside the castle as she waited with her ladies. Hair golden, begging to have her fingers run through it. His confidence shown in every step, his surprise at seeing her for the first time in so many years not quite hidden. _

_"You're shaking, you can't show them you're scared." The pressure of his hand at her waist, attempting to steady her, trying to take control of her fear for her._

_His eyes, endlessly blue depths, uncertain and clouded in the wake of Bash's wounded return from sending companies to Outreau. The feel of his lips that first time, the urgency with which he kissed her, that first intoxicating taste of him._

_The way he cut off her words when she teased him by the lakeside, leading to the awakening of her body - a fire she had never before known but which demanded to be quenched._

_His gentle firmness, her arms flying at him for coming back for her when the castle was under siege. The shock on his face as he realized he had revealed his love for her._

_"I'm yours. You're mine." A declaration made in his bed days later, not posed as a question or a possibility, but staged as certain fact in the newness of their union. The feel of his mouth on her abdomen lingered, his determined hopes sounding inside of her head._

_His sweet attempts to reassure her in those last days, his emphasis on the "we" and the "our." The shirt falling beautifully over his back as she watched him dress, his excitement for the wedding displayed in that subtle upward curve of his lips._

_Wait for me ..._

It was all there, tucked away in her mind - but it was no more. He was not here. _He could not be here_.

Mary was surprised she hadn't yet fallen from her horse.

It was on the fifth day that Bash suggested they find someplace to lodge while in the city. She might sleep better in a bed, he hinted. She wondered what he had heard, whether simply her midnight weeping or if she had revealed her heart aloud. Aylee had been quick to tell her several years ago she often spoke of things in her sleep.

_Aylee_.

Her dear friend's face rushes to the front of her mind. The blood. Her desire to go home. Mary's tears only increase as she attempts to control them.

In the night, she hears the household begin to stir. She closes her eyes, determined to rest a bit even if she does not return to sleep. Phantom fingertips trace her skin, ghost breaths land upon her neck, and she groans, her resolve to stay away threatening to collapse in her moment of weakness. _Can I truly live without him now?_

She must, she remembers, or she will have to live without him later.

In time, she rises. She affixes around herself a nightrobe borrowed from Danielle, their hostess, and pads her way into the kitchen. For once, she understands that she is "just" Mary - except that she is not.

"Ah, good morning, Lady Aylee!" Danielle greets her with a warm smile, cheerfully beckoning Mary to sit by the fire as she pours the younger girl a cup of tea. She returns to the fireplace, stirring the morning's porridge.

Mary settles into the chair, struck by the simplicity of this woman's life. Her children grown, she now takes in travelers as a means of providing extra income for her husband Christophe, who stables horses (and, indeed, had stabled Mary and Sebastian's upon their arrival).

Danielle sees Mary's eyes drift out the window and wonders just who the lovely young woman is and what causes the pain that will not leave her eyes.

"Breakfast will be ready soon, my dear. Why don't you tell me about yourself and your brother, Neill. Those are not French names, yet you both speak our native tongue. What has brought you to France, Aylee?"

Mary sighs, already beginning to rue her choice of name, as it reminds her of her friend's lifeless body - and of how it spurred her to leave Francis - but she knows it is not Danielle's fault. The gracious woman does not possess any inkling that Mary is not who she says she is. She decides to weave the tale she and Bash had concocted as they descended into the city.

"We have both been at Court in the service of Mary, the queen of Scotland. We have spent most of our lives here in France, as our father decided he would rather captain vessels and see new worlds than remain in Scotland."

Danielle clucks at her to continue as she removes the pot from the fireplace to momentarily keep it from boiling over.

"Our father wrote to us and said he would be making port here in the coming months. He suggested we travel south to meet him. It has been a great long while since we have seen him, and we have missed him greatly."

Footsteps. The creak of wooden steps. Bash appears in the kitchen, having slept in a room upstairs.

"Good morning, Neill," says their hostess, smiling. "I am sure Christophe will be along shortly. If you would like something to do while you are here, I am certain he can provide you with some work." Bash nods politely, in respect of her suggestion. "Your sister here was just telling me about herself and your hopes to see your father."

He turns to look at Mary, who shrugs at his quizzical look. Not wanting to be rude, he speaks in line with what they had planned, hoping Mary has kept to the same story.

"Yes, Madame. We hope he will arrive before winter. It is possible we might be here for a good long while, as we do not know whether he will be delayed. Would it be possible to remain here in your home until he comes?"

Their hostess spoons the morning meal into four bowls, setting them at the table and beckoning Bash to take a seat as Mary moves to the table.

"As long as Christophe agrees, it would be wonderful to have you for as long as you are able to be with us." She wanders to the window, pushing it open and calling for her husband to join them. "Christophe, breakfast!"

_If I were just me, Francis, and you were just you, Mary ..._

* * *

Mary joins Danielle in the kitchen after breakfast, asking to be put to work.

"I am afraid I have very little experience with daily chores, though I can milk a goat," she presents. "I would love to assist you and am willing to learn if you would be willing to teach me."

"Tut-tut, child," comes the matron's gentle teasing. "Surely you've learned something in your sixteen years."

Mary shakes her head vigorously. Danielle's eyes twinkle, eager at the prospect of a new pupil. "Of course I will teach you."

The day is filled with many firsts for Mary. Danielle's first lesson is bread, her second skimming cream from the milk to make butter. It surprises Mary how enjoyable it is to work with her hands, how easily it distracts her from the thoughts pressing against her mind. Bash finds her covered in flour when he arrives for the midday meal, laughing openly at the sight of a queen in a smock and skinning vegetables.

"If only Francis could see you now," he says before thinking, leaning against the doorframe. He hears Mary gasp, but Danielle does not notice what passes between the two. She simply wants to know of whom it is that Neill speaks.

"Who is this Francis your brother speaks of, Aylee?"

The spell cast by the morning's hard work dissipates. Bash's eyes plead with Mary's to forgive him and she resigns herself to inventing a new chapter of their story for their hosts.

"Francis is my husband." She stammers a little as she searches for words, grateful that Danielle will interpret their delivery as shyness. Danielle's head looks up from her task.

"You are married?" she asks. Mary nods. "How long have you been married, dear?"

Mary sighs, hoping Danielle will mistake it for happiness.

"Only a fortnight. He was gracious enough to let me travel to see my father while he attends to our holdings."

_I suppose there is some truth in that_, Mary reasons to herself.

Their hostess is speechless, as is Bash. He suspects there is more to Mary's story than she has let him know, but this is no time to ask.

* * *

"Danielle said I might find you in here." Bash's voice cuts through the quiet room. "Apparently, it is entirely proper for a young man to check on his married younger sister." His jest does not amuse her and he sits in a chair next to the bed. She forces her frame to rise from its reclined position, exhaustion written in the lines of her face.

"Are you still not sleeping well?" he inquires. She says nothing, shaking her head.

"Well, then, perhaps you would like to join me for a walk down by the docks? We _are_ supposed to be waiting for our father's arrival. It might give us a chance to talk."

He offers his arm and she reluctantly takes it, grabbing her coat from its peg by the door. She knows the time has come for them to discuss what has happened and she knows that Bash no longer will accept her silence as an answer.

_I'm never going to let you go._

* * *

**Author's Note**: I am so grateful for the response I've received for this story. Thanks to each of you for reading, reviewing favoriting and following. Please continue to do so! :)


	4. THREE: Seaside

**THREE: Seaside**

The carriage wheels rattle beneath her, the King's road taking her to the sea. The distance between her and her home grows, as does the fear she will not be welcomed back to Italy.

In a matter of moments, she managed to lose everything that mattered. Her son lost to a fate she can no longer prevent. Her husband lost long ago beneath the skirts of other women, no matter how he loved her at the outset. Her home, her life - it all stretches behind her.

She wonders whether her meddling profited any gain. Her sighs do not fall on anyone's ears. _Alone_. She must resign herself, now, that she will always be alone.

The driver signals the horses to stop and Catherine peers through the curtains. Silver in the sunlight, the sea gleams beneath them. They are about to descend into Marseille. It has been many years since she last stepped foot in the port city. Her first arrival had been at fourteen, escorted to France by a cardinal for her marriage to Henry. Naive. Far from innocent. Terrified.

She smiles wryly to herself, acknowledging the passage of time and the change it brings. At fourteen, she never would have imagined her future self returning to Marseille in such a manner, fleeing for her life from an unfaithful husband - and all because she had hoped to keep her favorite son from his own death.

_Francis_.

Her demeanor changes as she recalls their last exchange, the red of his face and deep-set anger in his eyes as he tried to restrain himself.

_You had no right!_

In spite of her resulting banishment, she takes pride in the man she raised. He showed passion and restraint, mercy and justice without intending to do so. In time, he would rule his people well.

_Perhaps he was right_, she ponders. Perhaps she has no right to seek to control fate, to deny him the happiness she has always wanted for him. Her thoughts turn to Mary, frustrated by the lovely girl at the root of this mess.

_Why must she be his equal in every way? Why must she be the perfect match for my son? Why could she not have been a horrible wretch of a girl with whom Francis would never have fallen in love?_

It matters little now, she realizes. Mary is gone, and Catherine is preparing herself to take her own leave of France.

* * *

She finds she must wait for a vessel to convey her to Italy. Someone by the docks tells her one should arrive in three days' time, unload, and then be off again. In the meantime, she opens the royal chateau in Marseille. She hopes Henry has not sent men to follow her, that she might yet escape with her life.

The home is empty save herself and her personal guards. Empty rooms greet her, triggering memories of a time she and Henry brought Elisabeth and Francis to the sea when they were children. It had been an attempt to take nine-year-old Francis' mind off of the loss of his playmate, Mary.

He had been too young then to understand the attempts on Mary's life and why she had to be sent away. The girl _had_ been dear to Catherine's heart. Even at a young age, she knew Mary would challenge her son while keeping him honest and good-hearted.

She wanders into the room that had been her son's on that particular respite, a scene playing before her without transition between past and present.

_He sits on the floor, his curls rumpled from the day's excursion, emptying his pockets of sand and seashells. Every attempt has been made to cram the objects into a small bottle, with little success._

_"What are you doing, Francis?" she asks, the salt air rising from the coast and wafting through the open windows._

_"I am making something for Mary, Mother. Do you think she'll like it?" The earnestness in his face is wonderful to behold. She settles down on the floor next to him. _

_"I think she will like it indeed, my son." Tears well in her eyes. Perhaps there is hope for her son to love his bride, to have more than his own parents, in spite of the political reasons that would initially bind them together._

_He holds up a shell for his mother to see. _

_"This one reminds me of her, Mother. It is beautifully smooth and white on the outside, but its heart is lovely and pink."_

_Thrilled with his discovery, he does his best to fit the shell into the bottle but it is too large. Laughing, Catherine leaves for the kitchen to find him another vessel for his gift._

And the scene ends there. As Catherine moves to the kitchen, she remembers how he missed Mary after she left, how he longed for his friend to return to him. As the years stretched on, he found other friends and doted upon his brothers, but none ever compared to Mary. _And I've ruined that now_, she reflects bitterly.

A final conversation with Nostradamus springs to thought, her attempts unsuccessful at squashing the memory of him lying defeated in the castle jail.

_Aylee's fate was force_d, he spoke urgently. _Perhaps Francis and Mary might still force their own_.

Her guard knocks, dragging her from her meditations. He signals that a letter has arrived. She opens it to find her passage secured onboard a ship to Italy two days hence. It is even sooner than she had hoped.

Not eager to remain in an empty house, she winds her way toward the docks with one of her guards. It is then that she spies them.

_Surely, it can't be ..._

But it is. There is no mistaking Mary's long dark locks and royal manner of carrying herself, and she would recognize Bash's bastard swagger anywhere. It was, after all, inherited from his father.

She follows at a safe distance so as to not attract their attention. It surprises her that they are here, in the south of France, and even more so that they are plainly attired and behaving as if they were commoners. She watches as Bash kindly escorts Mary in and out of shops, the young man obviously concerned with her safety more than anything else. Platonic. Protective. Friendly.

Their shopping done, they return to a small home where Catherine suspects they are lodging. Outside, she questions what her next action ought to be. Should she go in? Should she apologize? Should she leave for Italy without making her presence known?

The truth is she doesn't know how to proceed, so she turns and indicates to her guard that they will be leaving now for the chateau.

As they arrive, she enters her rooms and shuts the door. She lets her dress fall to the dusty floor and climbs into the empty bed. Her son's words are the only thing on her mind. Perhaps they will have to be enough to guide her decision.

_I love her, despite all that she has done._

* * *

The next day, Catherine walks the short distance back to the house she saw Mary and Bash enter the night before. Her guard looks around, making sure no one is lurking in the shadows before he allows his queen to rap on the door.

Danielle looks out the window, not expecting to see an armed guard and a well-dressed woman upon her doorstep. They regularly take in lodgers, certainly, but they usually did not see such folk renting rooms.

She wipes her hands dry on a towel and crosses the room to open the door.

"May I help you, Madame?" She addresses her question to Catherine, knowing most nobles do not appreciate the addressing of their guards.

"I should hope so," Catherine speaks sweetly. She knows how to get what she wants. After all, she is a Medici.

"I am looking for two of your lodgers? I met them yesterday in a shop near the docks, looking for a special gift for my son. They mentioned they might have found something akin to what I wanted, that I might stop by to discuss having it in trade?"

Unsure what to say and having no cause to doubt the woman's claim, Danielle steps aside to allow Catherine to pass through into the home. The guard remains outside, determined that neither Mary nor Bash will escape without speaking with his queen. Ever the gracious hostess, she offers a cup of tea, which Catherine politely declines. Excusing herself, she knocks at Mary's door.

"Lady Aylee? Someone has come to call on you and your brother. I will go fetch him from the stables. Come out when you are able!"

Catherine frowns, recognizing the name. _Of course she would take another name in honor of her departed friend,_ she muses. It is clear Mary does not want to be found.

The door opens and Mary's face turns ashen at the sight of Catherine standing in this small home in Marseille. _What could she possibly be doing here? How did she know where we were?_

Fear grips the vast reaches of her heart as she closes the door behind her, her stomach threatening to empty its contents. She forces herself to breathe deeply and cross the threshold of the door, moving cautiously into the kitchen.

"How did you find me?" Her question is queen-like, simple and direct in its delivery. Catherine suspects her fear but is impressed that Mary does not show it.

"By happenstance, actually." Catherine's words fall lightly, but Mary is at her guard. She has played the queen's games and lost - and she is not anxious to lose again.

"I am on my way back to Italy. Francis instructed me to leave before he told Henry I was involved in forcing your hand to flee. So, I left before my husband could have my head."

This revelation catches Mary. She realizes the woman sitting stalwart before her has finally lost everything she held close to her heart. No words come. She doesn't want to gift Catherine with any which might be twisted against her.

Noticing Mary's reticence, Catherine continues with the words she has rehearsed since last night.

"My son loves you. He has _always_ loved you, ever since you were children. And he loves you still, in spite of everything you've done. You must return to him or I fear he will never recover." The older woman's voice cracks, her defenses slipping at the onslaught of emotion. "You are his equal, Mary. You are all I ever wanted for my son."

Stunned, Mary leans against the wall. Her hand raises to her brow, struggling to believe this woman who has lied and manipulated to see her kept from Francis.

"How can I believe you? What about the prophecy?"

Catherine has expected this question. She remembers her answer, calculated in the dead of night. Whatever it might take to return her to the good graces of her son and husband, she has to try.

"Nostradamus has been imprisoned for heresy and treason. I suspect as soon as Henry discovered I had left, his wrath fell on the man and he was beheaded. It was foolish of me to believe in something so very un-Christian, my dear. Please forgive me."

She sheepishly lowers her head before the girl, hoping Mary will be true to her nature and offer mercy to a repentant soul.

"And what about Aylee?" Mary asks, her tone cold.

"Indeed," a resonant voice sounds from the doorway. _Bash_. "What about Aylee?"

"Aylee's life ended in an unfortunate accident. Someone eavesdropped on your conversation with Nostradamus and decided to take matters into their own hands to scare you off. I know not the motives of the party involved. Perhaps you will find it resolved upon your return?" She ends with a question even though it is not truly a question, knowing her time is short now that Bash has arrived.

"I am on my way to Italy and will trouble you no more, Mary. He needs you to return. Please consider it."

Mary watches as Catherine quits the house with no formality or adieu, sliding gracefully past Bash and walking toward another part of the city. Bash rushes to her, catching her as she falls to the ground. The wall is no longer sufficient to hold her.

"Talk to me, Mary. What was Catherine doing here?" She haltingly relays to him the words shared between herself and the French queen. The fight within her more real with each passing moment.

Bash is quiet, weighing the information before reaching his own decision concerning the matter. He covers her hand with his own in a brotherly fashion.

"I think it is time for you to go home, Mary."


	5. FOUR: Bound

**FOUR: Bound**

_For chrisrose and her love of the bastard._

It takes another week for him to convince her to return. He thinks it an easy decision, knowing the nightmares and the midnight cries have not ceased, but she is wary of Catherine's words. Though the woman departed for Italy several days past, the exchange lingers in Mary's mind.

On his way to help Christophe with the horses, he spies her curled up in a seat by the window, staring out at the sea. Danielle shoos him out of the kitchen, informing him she will care for his sister. The woman knows sorrow when she sees it and Bash is thankful for her interest in helping Mary's smile return.

He does not leave, however, unable to pull himself away from the hallway in which he stands. While Mary has told him everything, he wants to hear what she might share with their hostess. He presses his body flush against the wall so as not to be detected, strain unnecessary to hear what is spoken in the next room.

"Aylee, my dear." Their hostess is gentle in approach. He suspects there is tea involved, hearing the scrape of a spoon on the good woman's cup. "You seem so melancholy. Do you miss Francis?"

He cannot see her expression from his vantage point, but he knows it is registering the shock of hearing Francis' name spoken aloud by someone who does not know her predicament. As she gathers herself, it is likely she offers a nod. She likes to nod.

"I do, indeed, Madame." He hears Mary sigh. "I did not expect it to be so difficult to be away from him so soon."

Her voice is laced with anguish and regret. "Perhaps it was wrong for me to leave him, even for such a worthwhile cause."

Danielle's mothering expresses itself in hushes and clucks aimed to reassure Mary, not fully able to understand the depths of the girl's heartache. She broaches another subject with Mary, her voice sounding hesitantly.

"Pardon my question, Aylee, but there are other ways in which you have not seemed quite the same. Are you feeling all right?"

Bash, too, has noticed. Her ashen face did not depart with Catherine, though she did empty the contents of her stomach in the bushes outside shortly thereafter. She had eaten little and had begun sleeping a bit more soundly, but dreams still awakened her in the night. He realizes Mary has yet to answer Danielle. Her voice eventually creeps cautiously into the air.

"No, I'm afraid I am not, Danielle. I sleep but find no rest and my stomach has been turning within me for days. Do you think I should be concerned?"

"No, dear child. I do not believe you should be concerned. It has been three or four weeks now since you and Francis were wed?"

He knows what Danielle is implying and is surprised when he hears Mary gasp.

_She couldn't possibly be ... _Of all the things she had finally told him, her union with his brother had not been one of them. Turning to slip quietly through the door before he is noticed, shock begins its seep into his body. He is grateful for his day with the horses. It provides an ideal opportunity to sift this new information.

* * *

He approaches her again that evening, treading lightly so as not to betray his eavesdropping. "Have you given further thought to your return to Court?" he asks.

She nods. _Always nodding_. "I have."

He glimpses a peaceful resignation in her eyes that he has not seen since their departure. She has made her decision. "It is time to go back," she states simply, quietly.

His breath hitches in his throat as he looks at her. She reminds him of Francis in this moment, determined to do what is right whatever the cost to himself. This is no mere queen, he recognizes. She is his brother's equal and she is not to be had by any other._  
_

"Very well, then. We will gather provisions and prepare to leave in three days' time. That should grant us enough opportunity to see our father, who has finally arrived." He teases her with this last bit, knowing she might choose to be honest with their hosts rather than keep up their original ruse. Three days should be sufficient to pack and say their farewells, but he can tell from her eyes that she is eager to begin the long trek back to Court. _To Francis._

* * *

He hears her muttering to herself as her horse steps through a pool of mud and low branches. With their speed slowed, he can actually make out some of her words. No longer lost in her usual fog of memories, her eyes have regained some of their characteristic light. Her face, however, remains strained and he occasionally watches her as she scrunches it, fighting some discomfort.

"Francis and his foolish hopes! ... Well, he has certainly gotten his wish, hasn't he?"

She brings her horse to a halt in a clearing just ahead and dismounts. He knows he will shortly hear her heaving in the brush off to the side. She has done this for four days, the episodes growing more pronounced and frequent as the distance between them and the castle shrinks.

Mary grabs her skin of water and washes her mouth with a stream of its contents. She then spits it onto the ground. Bash chuckles, amused once more by her unrefined display.

"It astonishes me to think that you have been a queen for nearly all of your years, Mary Stuart, when you behave in such unladylike fashion!" He winks, his attempt at humor evident.

She smiles weakly, another bout of nausea overtaking her as she returns to empty her stomach a second time. His face fills with concern. They are halting more often, with less in her stomach for her to lose with every stop. Her condition is not improving and he knows it is not nerves. She has yet to confide in him her conversation with Danielle.

He finds himself grateful that they are approaching the castle. If their rests do not take too long, he hopes they will arrive before nightfall.

She stumbles back toward her horse, repeating her routine with the skin.

"Are you all right, Mary?" She notices his concern as she climbs shakily back onto her horse. It takes her longer than she would like, her body weak.

"We are close now. Do you think you are all right to ride for a while without needing to stop? I would like to reach the castle before nightfall, particularly for your sake. You need to be attended to." His question gentle, his words still possess an urgent tone.

"Bash, I-" She tries to speak, but cannot express the tangle of fear and emotion that has taken up residence within her at knowing they are so close.

"Thank you for coming with me."

Her soft words take him aback. He sees her body quaver on top of her horse, the first sobs he has seen in days. She no longer dreams the same dream every night, though he suspects others have taken its place. He knows she is anxious to see his brother but he also recognizes it will not be an easy reunion to be had. Her only hope is that Francis' anger might be tempered by his joy at her return.

_Thirst_.

Bash shakes his head at the memory of his mother's words. He dismounts and secures his horse to a nearby tree. The rest of the journey can wait. He walks astride of her and places his hand on her back, gingerly setting it upon her shoulder.

"Everything will be all right, Mary. If there is anything my brother does well it is that he loves fiercely." Her eyes look up to meet his. "Do not worry so. We must get you to the castle. I am most afraid for your health."

"Bash, I-" She begins again, her words breaking in the place they had before. She swallows down a gulp of air, her eyes conveying a different type of fright.

"I think I'm ... " Her voice trails, unsure if she should be mentioning this to him.

"You think you're pregnant," he finishes for her. Her eyes widen as he says the words aloud. "I overheard you and Danielle talking in the days before we left. To say I was surprised is to say too little. You had not told me you and my brother had, ahem," he cleared his throat. "You did not tell me of that particular development."

A blush rises on her cheeks and she laughs nervously. "I decided it was of no consequence to tell you. It did not change my need to leave."

He notices the return of her unapologetic queenly nature and he knows how foolish he has been to pine for her. She was never his to want. The revelation that his mother was fully wrong washes over him.

Her heart thirsted for and belonged only to his younger brother, and he had seen its power every day they had been away together. To save his brother's life, she had been willing to walk away from him - already ruined for other men and for securing future assistance for her people. It may have indeed been foolish, he resolves, but the owner of her heart is clear - and it was not, nor had it ever, been his.

* * *

The castle grounds come into view as the sun begins to sink below the water's edge. They ride in silence as they approach the gate, darkness settling in about them. A stable hand appears to help them from their horses and a guard is appointed to escort the pair into the castle.

Bash's fear is of his arrest, but no one stops him as he walks with Mary to her chambers. He will see his father in the morning, he decides. Everything can be explained then.

He opens the door and leads her inside. No lamps are lit. Upended furniture and the contents of her emptied armoire are scattered upon the floor. She falls into the bed, weary from travel and sickness. Bash instructs her to rest, assuring her he will find servants to restore her room and provide her with some sustenance.

Too weak to protest, he glimpses her agreement in the dark. Her breathing slows quickly. She has already found sleep.

* * *

**Author's Note**: So, here's the deal ... I'm anti-Mash (as they are most commonly referred) but I'm not necessarily anti-Bash. I think his character has incredible potential, just not with Mary. There has been so little emotional development for the character to this point that I felt he deserved his own chapter to explore his thoughts and perspective. What do you think? Was it worthwhile? Let me know!


	6. FIVE: Absolution

**FIVE: Absolution**

He stands at his window, the one facing the castle gate. Two figures slip into view and are ushered inside as dusk arrives. He does not move, not yet.

A rap sounds at the door and his page pushes his head into the room, adjusting his eyes to the room's shadows.

"Your highness?"

He offers the man a grunt of acknowledgement, though he already knows the reason he has interrupted the prince in his chambers. He has been waiting for this moment.

"Your brother and the queen have arrived, your highness."

The page does not wait for a reply, quickly backing out the door and returning to his duties.

Francis retrieves a piece of folded parchment from his pocket and opens it. The corners are dogged, as is he. He has read his mother's words countless times since her letter had been placed in his hands.

_"My dear son,"_ the brief missive reads, its words long since committed to memory_. "By the grace of Providence I have found Mary. I hope to see her tomorrow, to convince her to return to you, as I trust she will. It may be weeks before she reappears at your door but, when she does, forgive her. Do not harbor bitter things in your heart. She is yours to love. Give my love to Charles and little Henry."_

A fortnight has come and gone. Each night, when he wakes to the endless vision of her riding away, his feet lead him to her rooms. He hasn't slept more than the expanse of that dream in nearly a month, always waking and never desiring to return to his slumber.

His first visit after the letter's arrival, he overturned one of her tables. He relished the way it clanged to the floor at his command. Her dresses had been next, pulling them out one-by-one and remembering the way they clothed her small frame before casting them to the ground. The servants had been instructed not to touch her rooms, so they remained a testament to his anger with her. Perhaps he holds more resemblance to his mother than he would like to admit.

It has returned in that fortnight, his anger. He thought its flame had abated with its blazing upon his mother and the seer, but the knowledge he would once more see Mary caused it to grow fiery within him.

_Mary_.

His heart clenches, unsure whether to cling to his anger or succumb to relief.

_If only she hadn't left with Bash ... _

He exits his rooms and enters the corridor, his footsteps swift and determined. If Bash has not already been arrested, he will surely be in his rooms. Francis follows the familiar route to his brother's door.

He knocks lightly, attempting to restrain himself before he sees Bash's face. It is not enough, however. As his brother's profile appears in the opening, he sends a fist into his jaw. The crack is satisfying, the sharp pain in his hand worthwhile.

But Bash does not fight back. He opens the door, cradling the fresh injury with his hand, and steps aside.

"It has been a long while, brother," Bash says through clenched teeth, cringing slightly as a wave of pain breaks under his chin. "Please, come in."

This reception is unexpected. Stunned, Francis enters the room.

* * *

He slips in the door, careful not to make too much noise. In the moonlight, he recognizes his handiwork and determines to set things aright in the morning.

The room has lain silent for weeks, taunting him in her absence, but no longer.

He hears the familiar rise and fall of her chest, breathing heavily as she sleeps. Stepping closer, he sees her hand twitch to bat at something unseen. Her beauty astounds him. Even in the low light, he cannot miss the marks of illness of which Bash made mention. Her face appears a little thinner, a little more pale. His hand reaches out to touch hers before he can keep it from doing so. It has been too long since he has felt the smooth grain of her skin grace his fingertips.

_Mary_.

Hand retracted to his side, he watches her. Anger slipping from him at the sight of her, a sob rises in his chest and he hastily covers his mouth to conceal it.

But he stays, keeping watch. His legs grow stiff and he realizes he has been here too long. He dares not wake her. They will have opportunity to talk come morning.

Francis does not return to his chambers, though his muscles ache from the accumulated fatigue and his eyes struggle to remain open. His skin crawls at the thought she is so close. He cannot attempt sleep until they have spoken, for better or for worse.

He assumes he looks quite terrible. Haggard. Unkempt. Nearly unrecognizable.

As has been his routine for weeks now, he ventures to the kitchens for an early breakfast and to speak with Leith. Every day has been the same since she left. Cold. Miserable. Filled with longing.

But perhaps today will be different.

He settles in at the table while Leith fetches him some water and a piece of the loaf that has just been pulled from the fire. The hand has become a close confidant, having seen Francis most mornings since Mary's departure.

"And how are you this morning, Francis?" Leith's question is the same each day, the formality of his friend's position abandoned in the previous weeks. When one man has seen another man drunk and crying, there is no longer any use for pretense.

Francis sits silent, an unusual response to the daily inquiry. Leith looks up, startled by the stupor on his friend's face.

"So it must be true, then? She has come back?"

The prince nods, his eyes unfocused. "She has," he finally responds. "And I don't know if I am more angry or more pleased." He tears off a piece of the bread and begins to eat.

"Perhaps you are both," Leith suggests with a shrug. "And perhaps that is all right."

* * *

His rooms await him after he leaves the kitchens. The sun's first rays stream through the corridor windows as he ambles onward. He will not sleep, certainly, but he feels inclined to put on some fresh clothing. It is not the first morning Leith has joked about Francis beginning to smell.

As soon as he sees the door open, he knows she has come to him. He finds he must pause before entering, to prepare himself to see her, to hear her voice.

He shuts the door behind him. She rises from her seat on the couch, clearly watching him, but neither speaks. Francis crosses to the chair upon which his valet has set out a clean change of clothes.

Knowing her eyes are on him, he takes his time, reminding himself that this isn't the first time she has seen him do this. He swears he hears a small gasp escape her lips at the sight of his bare back, as he lifts the soiled shirt away from his frame.

The first smirk in weeks curves his mouth at the sound, but he is quick to quell it.

Silence descends in its roar. His back is still to her when he hears her voice.

"I lied."

He turns, knowing he must tread cautiously, his tone hollow. Resolute. "Yes, you did."

She fidgets with her hands, rolling them over one another near her waist. It takes everything for him not to reach out and still them with his own. It is maddening.

Her gaze drifts downward and darts about the room before she looks up to meet his eyes for the first time. She inhales, taking strength from somewhere within.

"I'm sorry." Another breath. "Will you please forgive me?"

Not yet willing to fully engage with her, he diverts his attention - unable to look upon the pain lodged in her eyes. He picks up a book and thumbs its pages in an attempt to remain calm.

"You didn't trust me," he states coldly, his anger threatening to make itself known. His voice louder in spite of his efforts. "I told you to wait, that I would find a way to fix things. And then you were gone."

He puts the book back down and glances up in time to see her countenance grow even more sorrowful, and his anger recedes just enough to recall his mother's words.

_Forgive her. _

He rubs his palm firmly into his forehead and squeezes shut his eyes. His thoughts swim, emotion surging. To avoid his mounting frustration, he tries to focus solely on the political side of their situation.

"We should not speak of such things. I have not slept and cannot think clearly. All you need to know is that I have spoken with my father and he has agreed to uphold the alliance should we, in fact, be married."

He glimpses the effect of his statement as it settles upon her. The surprise on her face tells him plainly that she cares little for the alliance. She did not return for Scotland, but for _him_ - and for his forgiveness.

"Do you want this?" Her eyes plead, but she remains composed.

The question catches him off of his guard because it is _his_ question.

"It matters little what I want." He knows he hurts her in the way he fails to acknowledge what lies between them, but he can't go back. "My father desires the alliance and for us to be wed. And then, of course, there is the fact that I've ruined you. I have a duty to honor you in that."

Everything within him recoils at his own words, knowing he doesn't mean them and that she will fight him for them. Surely enough, her penitent calm breaks. Her characteristic passion returns to her eyes, her voice.

"Duty, Francis? Honor?" she rejects his words, yelling. "I _chose_ to let you ruin me. You don't even know _how_ you've ruined me!" Her voice gathers strength, her words no longer meek but filling the room. Exasperated, she throws her hands out.

"But I chose you because I love you." Speech softening slightly at this statement, he watches as she closes her eyes to keep him from what he might see in their depths. She draws in a ragged breath before continuing. "I left because I love you and I didn't want to lose you."

The room falls quiet once more. Her eyes open, seeking his. Francis' anger dissipates as quickly as it has risen, but he remains reluctant to speak. He wonders what words will spill forth if he does.

As he holds her gaze, her voice breaks through again, repentant. Eyes wide. Seeking.

"I'm sorry."

He notes the tears as they begin to crawl their way onto her cheeks. She stands her ground, however, unwilling to leave before he talks to her.

"Is not some small part of you glad to see me?" He knows the uncertainty which threads her voice, the fear that he no longer cares for her, will be his undoing - and yet he determines to cling fiercely to his last bastions of resolve, however small.

She takes a step toward him, and he steps back to preserve their distance. He does not miss the sliver of hurt glint in her eyes.

_Whatever happens ..._

"It's not that." He sighs. "I love you." He forces the words out, more rushed than intended.

"Then can you forgive me?" Her question sits in the room unanswered as the grievances against her spring to his mind.

_Do not harbor bitter things in your heart._

"There is so much between us, Mary." It is the first time he has said her name aloud. The sweet taste of it lingers on his tongue, reminding him of what once was not bitter.

"I'm sorry," she repeats, but her words carry forward, "for not trusting you."

She steps closer. His feet do not move this time.

"I'm sorry for giving way to fear."

Closer. It becomes difficult for Francis to breathe.

"I'm sorry for running."

One last thing hangs between them, and one last step. "And Bash?"

A twinge of uncertainty marks his tone, and he knows he is a fool to ask. Bash has already told him the truth of the matter.

But something within him needs to hear it from her lips. As she steps forward one last time and stretches her hand up to cradle his cheek, his body betrays him and he leans into her warmth.

Her eyes soften at his small sign of surrender and she shakes her head. "He offered protection and nothing more. All I ever wanted was _you_."

From his cheek where they are resting, Mary's fingers slide back into his hair. His tension relaxes with their slight tugs upon his scalp.

The distance between their faces closes with her gesture, nose grazing nose. He has missed that nose. She presses a gentle kiss to his lips, careful, her own display of surrender.

"Can you forgive me?" She asks, whispering the plea one last time, resting her forehead against his and searching his eyes for mercy.

_She is yours to love. Forgive her_.

"My God, Mary ... "

Instinct takes over and he reaches for her, wrapping her tightly into his arms and burying his head into her hair. His need for her is too great, her scent invading his senses and the feel of her pressed against him evoking memory of the days leading to the wedding. He has no intention of letting her go again.

Her head rests against him, the weight of it just as he remembers. "Francis?" she addresses him hesitantly, the word rattling. "About the wedding ... Do you think your father would mind terribly if it were soon?"

Something in the way she asks alerts him to the fact she has something to hide.

"I don't think he would mind," Francis begins. "But may I inquire as to why?"

She doesn't answer right away and he realizes his words might lead her to believe he does not share in the same desire.

"Please don't get me wrong!" He rushes, laughing lightly and pulling back so she can see his earnestness. "I do hope he won't mind, but I do feel he would appreciate a good reason for the wedding to happen sooner."

"I think we might have one." Color rises on her cheeks as she blushes. "There was one particular hope you had one morning ... "

* * *

**Author's Note**: Four days! It took four days to write this chapter, though I have been writing and rewriting it in my head since the day this fic was born ... This chapter was so hard to get right, and I fear I still did not do it justice! We are closing in on the end here, with probably two more chapters to go. I hope you will enjoy it!

Can I tell you just how floored I have been by the response I've had to this story, though? I somehow had 30 reviews before I posted chapter 4, something that didn't happen with "Finding Home" until I arrived at chapter 7 (and this is much more limited in scope and length). Thank you to everyone for your support and reviews. :)

And, for anyone who may have been confused by my "going Bash" on them, I ask that you trust me. Even if you don't like Bash, there were some loose ends that needed tying to remain consistent with the show and to let the characters breathe more organically. I felt the last chapter was a natural place to do this as he took Mary back to Francis. To see him process that this girl is not his and to see her through his eyes was essential to the process of bringing them both back. This is not Bash's story, but he did have that horrid conversation with his mother and then squired Mary away. Such things cannot just be ignored!


	7. SIX: Reclamation

**SIX: Reclamation**

She emerges from a deep slumber for the first time in weeks, taking note of the afternoon sun's slant through the windows. Her attempt to move is blocked by a firm arm guarding her middle.

_Francis_.

His gesture causes her to smile, its protective nature staggering in light of the morning's events. She is still incredulous at its unfolding.

_The close of the door awakens her in the night. Convinced he had come to her rooms and then gone, she finds she cannot return to sleep. She rises, wrapping a dressing robe over her travelling clothes, and sets off to find him in his own rooms._

_But when he isn't there, she settles in to wait. A maid comes to her, offering tea intended to settle her stomach and requested by Bash. As hoped, the brew manages to tame the turning within her._

_Well, as much as it is able. It cannot still her anxiety with regard to how Francis will react to both her presence and her news._

_When he finally arrives, his coldness does not surprise her - having seen it upon her initial return to Court and having anticipated it with every passing day the whole while she had been gone. Determined to prove she has no further intention of running away, she stands her ground. She asks for forgiveness. She has no choice but to fight for him._

_At some point in their conversation she realizes that nothing can ever be just as it was ... But, as she finds his arms wrapped around her and her head resting upon his chest, she knows they can, somehow, move forward._

_He needs to know, however, what she carries._

_"Francis?" She addresses him, her voice tentative, shaky in its delivery of his name. "About the wedding ... Do you think your father would mind terribly if it were soon?"_

_She watches suspicion grow upon his face, but he quickly masks it as he answers._

_"I don't think he would mind, but may I inquire as to why?"_

_Her opportunity to share has come, but she finds she cannot speak in the moment, suddenly overcome by the fear that perhaps he won't want to marry her after all that has happened._

_"Please don't get me wrong!" His laughter, low and lovely, banishes her fear and she sighs with gratitude as he continues, "I do hope he won't mind, but I do feel he would appreciate a good reason for the wedding to happen sooner."_

_"I think we might have one." She feels her cheeks grow warm. "There was one particular hope you had one morning ... "_

_The memory of that morning dawns on him in all of its recollected glory, and she sees a spark of his old self light in the depths of his eyes._

_"Are you sure?" _

Mary rolls toward the center of the bed, turning within his grasp. Her dress twists with her movement. She knows that they are not done addressing what must be addressed, though they spent much of the morning hours talking. Not yet. Still, she is struck by his nature. Never in her life has she known a man so set in his ways, and yet still so faithful, so tender. Her hand stretches to push back a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

_Yes, perhaps we can move forward after all._

She notes the peaceful expression upon his face and tries not to wake him as she wrestles with her dress, but she is unsuccessful. He feels her shift in his arms, the subtle relocation of his hair, and his eyes flicker open, a lazy smile tugging at his lips.

"Mary."

She shivers at the sound of his voice. It reawakens her desire for him, something she has only entertained in her dreams and sought to quench in the days since her departure. Her body curls itself into his, unable to curl close enough to be sated.

But he does not intend to let her stay that way.

He rolls her onto her back and positions himself over her. The action unexpected, Mary takes the chance to examine him in the daylight. His appearance weary, the cumulative effects of his exhaustion and anxiety on her behalf are evident. He traces her cheek with a finger and his thumb softly pads circles along her jaw. She has missed this.

_She has missed him_.

"You have every right to be angry with me," she says quietly, intent on holding his gaze as she speaks. "I was a fool, Francis. You have every right," she repeats.

He does not respond, not for a long moment, but his silence holds no venom.

"I _was_ angry," his words break through, the honest vulnerability of his tone disarming. "I was, indeed. And worried after Greer told me what happened."

Her expression gives away her bewilderment at Greer's involvement, but he does not entertain her by telling her more.

"It took a while to convince my father that your hand was forced and that, should you return, it would be advantageous for him to allow us to marry. His vexation was not entirely your fault, however." He stops to chuckle at his father's expense. "I think it had more to do with the women in his life. Diane left without warning or explanation, Kenna refused to see him and, though she had already gone, he banished my mother - and all within a day of him losing the promise of England."

She shifts uncomfortably, understanding the scope of damage she had unintentionally caused by giving way to her fears. Sheepishly, she hides her eyes from his.

"I'm sorry." At some point, she knows she will need to stop apologizing but, for now, she feels the compulsion to do so.

"Mary," he lifts her chin, his voice entreating, encouraging her to look at him. "They are each responsible for their own actions, as are you. Do not be burdened for them."

"But your father must be angry with me, still." She seeks an answer in the lines of his face.

"I cannot speak for him," he replies. "If you must know, you will have to speak with him yourself. Perhaps we might find him before the evening meal?"

* * *

He walks her to her rooms so she can change out of her dress, the one which has clung to her frame since leaving Marseille. Henry is expecting their appearance in the throne room shortly, so Francis urges Mary to hasten her steps.

But the stairwell looms and her footfalls cease entirely. Mary's legs lock, freezing her to the place she last saw Aylee alive. The memory proves too much for her, tears streaming freely from her eyes and blurring her sight. Nothing can alter what happened. _Nothing_. For a moment, she is tempted to believe she was right to run.

From further down the corridor, Francis returns to her side, taking her into his arms and whispering into her ear, "It is not your fault, Mary."

_Oh, but it is!_ she screams inside, wishing she could convince someone else of her bloodguilt.

"Mary," he tries again. "It is not your fault."

When she still fails to speak, he clarifies, confirming Catherine's words from Marseille.

"Someone overheard your conversation and wanted you to believe Nostradamus, so they forced the death of one of your ladies. Nostradamus confirmed it before he was executed, though the secret of _who_ died with him." He forces her to meet his eyes.

"Do not blame yourself. Be sad. Mourn. Grieve. But _do not_ blame yourself, Mary." For now, she cannot but hold fast to the guilt, though she is grateful knowing it will relent in time at his urging.

"Come," he tugs at her arm gently. "My father is expecting us."

Her door comes into view and he swings it open to reveal Greer, Lola and Kenna - ladies truly waiting for their queen. She notices that the furniture and her clothing have been returned to their rightful places in her absence. Francis nods in acknowledgement at the ladies' presence and returns to the door.

"I will wait for you outside, Mary."

As soon as the door closes behind him, the ladies rush their friend, embracing and asking questions. Mary does not speak, however. Overcome by emotion at their reunion, her stomach begins to turn again.

Noting the look of discomfort on her features, Greer reaches for a cup and hands it to Mary.

"We were told to give you this when we saw you. Bash instructed the kitchens to brew it for you twice daily to help you feel better."

She hands over the drink. _Dear Greer_. Mary smiles weakly, finding her voice.

"Thank you, Greer. It is so wonderful to see all of you."

Lola rifles through Mary's armoire in search of a new dress for Mary to wear.

"Henry does not like to be kept waiting," offers Kenna. "We can talk later. For now, let us ready you for your audience with the king."

The girl begins to fuss with Mary's hair, twisting it back simply in lieu of having sufficient time for Mary to bathe. Lola wanders over with a fresh dress, brilliantly black with rosy embellishment, and beckons Mary to the changing screens.

Mary steps behind them and disrobes, casting aside her soiled dress. She longs for a bath, but resolves to a quick wash from her basin before returning her corset to its place against her frame. Here, she stalls, realizing her ladies do not know of her condition.

"Lola, could you help me with the laces?" Her question typical, she wonders if alterations need to be made to her routine. Her stomach lurches, the tea not having had long enough to take effect. She covers her mouth with her hand, hoping to stem her stomach's contents from their rise. It is not enough, however.

She reaches for the chamber pot as Lola comes into view.

"Are you all right, Mary?" Lola lends her arm to steady Mary's trembling as she heaves. Mary sees the worry in her friend's eyes. Surely, they know she has been ill, but whether they have been told _why _... she suspects they have not.

"I will be fine," she says with a wave of her hand to dismiss the other's fears. "I just need to have the laces done." She indicates the back of her corset, adding, "Perhaps not so tight today, Lola?"

Mary watches as Lola stifles further comment, motioning for her to turn around. She breathes deeply in relief. Until she and Francis finally wed, they have agreed to share Mary's condition only amongst those who already know - and perhaps with the king, should it be necessary.

* * *

Francis and Mary had reached an agreement with Henry concerning their wedding, though they had needed to reveal their indiscretions to convince him to expedite the event. He had immediately sent to Paris to summon the cardinal and informed them they could be married as soon as the Church's representative returned to Court.

The evening meal had passed quickly, with Mary removing herself early to her rooms. Her ladies had requested a bath for her and she had at last been able to relax in the warmth the water provided.

But, while tired from the day's exertions, she cannot bring herself to sleep. Pure exhaustion alone had caused her to fall into bed and doze off the previous night but, even then, she had waked as her body sensed his absence.

She cannot help how her feet lead her through the corridors and to his door. The hour not yet too late, the page allows her to enter without knocking. Francis has not yet retired for the night.

He looks up from where he sits studying something at the desk. She suddenly feels foolish, childish even, for interrupting him because she could not sleep in her own bed. Stammering, she hastily turns back to the door to leave.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come."

But he moves more quickly than she, catching her arm as she attempts her retreat and spins her back toward him.

"Don't be silly." His voice is low, with a hint of jest to it. "You are always welcome here. Surely, you know that?" The question lands as he closes the distance between them and she knows he does not expect an answer, but she gives him one regardless.

"I just ... " She hesitates.

"What is it? Is something wrong?" His eyes darken a bit with concern and she hurries to assure him.

"No, nothing is wrong." She offers a small smile. "I just couldn't sleep."

His hand finds the side of her neck and her heart races. They have shared this moment before, in what seems to be another lifetime.

"You couldn't sleep?" She sees him bite back a grin, tenderness flooding his features, and she feels indignation rise within her at his subtle mocking.

"No." She tries to say more, but finds herself unable to do so. Not with the way he is looking at her. Luckily, she has no need. Francis crosses to the door, opens it and peers out to address his page.

"I will be retiring for the evening and am not to be disturbed. Please allow no more visitors." His voice rings strong. Formal. She hears his page's assent, dulled in the background.

She watches as he closes the door and bars it behind him. The afternoon and evening had been spent in discussion, but Francis had yet to ask for anything more than clarity.

_Could he possibly still want ... _

Her thoughts are interrupted by the crash of his lips into her own.

"But Francis," Mary protests, reluctantly pulling back. "Your page knows I am in here!" He pays no heed to her concern for propriety. Instead, he begins to place kisses along her neck and shoulder, taking delight at how she shudders at his touch.

"I don't care," he murmurs against her flesh. "And I trust him to keep our secret. He knows what his indiscretion will cost him."

"But-" she attempts, trying to keep her wits about her as he begins to walk her toward the bed. He quickly cuts her off, capturing her mouth once more. His fervor and need for her are overwhelming. She remembers her nights alone, in her bed in Marseille - how she longed for him.

"Besides," she feels him smile against her. "You already carry my child. If we cannot change that, I propose we embrace its freedoms."

Her head strikes the pillows as she falls, his arms guiding her landing. She wants to assert how she doesn't deserve such freedoms, how she doesn't deserve his forgiveness - much less his love - but his ministrations render her speechless.

"Francis? We ... " she finds her voice but is unable to convey what insecurity lies in her heart.

"Mary," he returns firmly, having noted her conflict as his hand cradles her face. "It is behind us." He pleads with her to trust him and his forgiveness.

"Let me love you."

The words are more a statement than the question they should be. He intently searches her eyes for permission. The fear lingering in them dissipates as desire drives them both and invites them to reclaim what was rightfully theirs.

_After we rule, for a great long while ..._

* * *

**Author's Note**: Thank you for your patience with this chapter! While the last one ("Absolution") took me several days to write and re-write, this one simply took me several days to find time to write. Then, when it had been written, it never seemed quite as it should be. I know some of you were probably hoping for some tremendously steamy scene, but I am not the one to write such a thing (and, indeed, am wholly incapable of doing it justice). Regardless, I hope you enjoyed reading and, if not, you can always believe it ends with the previous chapter. :)

One last chapter, an epilogue of sorts, will cap this story. Thank you for joining me on this journey - it has been a delight to share it with each of you!


	8. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

She wanders through the corridors to venture outside. Three weeks back at Court and the castle stifles. Her husband barely acknowledges her presence, his anger still fresh in the wake of what her actions nearly cost him - that, and his attempts to appease his only remaining mistress have taken precedence. Her counsel is dead. Her son, while warmer than in her departure, remains cold toward her. Only her younger sons received her with joy upon her arrival but, even so, they do not know how to handle a mother who left for two months without saying goodbye.

The winter grey coming through the windows has made the castle's walls suffocating. Little escape presents itself.

So, as the first signs of spring appear, she decides to take advantage of the opportunity to enjoy some fresh air and begins to weave her way through the gardens.

Apparently, she is not the only one to have such an idea.

She passes a merry party led by her son and the young woman now unavoidably her daughter-in-law. The bastard tags along with one of Mary's ladies. A kitchen hand lopes along with a second. The third, no doubt, off somewhere with the king.

Her son bears little resemblance to his father, that is for certain. Henry would never stand for servants spending time with royals on equal footing. But she is grateful for Francis' kind heart, as well as the ever-present smile on his face since she returned from her exile. For nearly two months, she had worried she might never see that smile grace his features again.

Granted, she missed the wedding. Henry had made sure of that, having sent his summons to her in Italy when the two were already married and she could no longer put a stop to it. He had been unwilling to risk her presence, and she couldn't fault him. Her regrets were numerous.

Catherine watches as Mary catches up to Francis and laces her hand into his. The young woman's happiness rivals that of her son's, the intimacy and joy in their union evident even in the company of others. Mary appears to be at peace, any lingering worry concerning the prophecy long since banished at Francis' urging.

Her time away had provided her with ample opportunity to ponder how her son would receive her letter's admonitions and, subsequently, how he would receive Mary upon her return from Marseille. Many nights, she had lain awake in Italy, questioning her choice of words and whether she had allowed too much freedom for the fate Nostradamus had predicted to come to pass.

The seer's words prove difficult to forget, even back at Court - his claims that Francis would die because of his union with Mary. That she would be alone, _childless_.

Mary's current state gives Catherine hope. The young girl is aglow with early maternity, her cheeks flush and her dresses newly altered to hang loosely upon her frame.

_And how Francis dotes on her!_

She smiles to herself, curious how a boy raised by a man who never demonstrated affection toward his own wife could ever know how to be different. It is all she has ever wanted for her son, to see him love and be loved. Happy. Willing to forgive his wife.

Francis has proven himself to be quite the attentive husband. While newly wed, and naturally still enjoying that nascent blissful state, his love for his bride displays itself in every small gesture, every reach for Mary's hand. Catherine had even crossed paths with the pair in the corridor the other day and felt voyeuristic as she witnessed her son's tenderness, the way he held his hand to gently brush his wife's swelling abdomen. His excitement for the child's birth could not be contained.

And yet, the war inside of her wages over where to place her trust. She has always adapted to whatever faith has best benefitted her position. Nostradamus' uncanny ability to foresee future events had lured her, surely, but had he truly not seen his own death when he chose to divulge that her son's union with Mary would cost him his life?

It is almost enough to convince her that everything might, indeed, end well - that, as Nostradamus had told her before his unfortunate death, they might be able to force their own fate. She finds herself wary, however. Unable to find peace. Unable to embrace the beautiful and carefree thing before her, as her daughter-in-law seems to have been able to do.

Her many questions linger, her conscience unsettled within her. Francis and Mary have been married. She cannot change that fact, nor can she intervene as she once did. There is no choice but to trust, to hope, they share a different fate. Their happiness and Mary's pregnancy could be signs that it might be so.

Yes, she hopes that it might be so. And the prospect of a grandchild most certainly provides motivation for her to mend what has been rent in the meantime. It has been a good many years since a child last wailed or toddled within the castle walls. The thought tempts her.

But, as she watches the party lope toward the lakeside to examine the first evidences of spring, she still wonders. In spite of her hopes, she cannot escape what sits in the recesses of her mind.

_What if Nostradamus was right?_

She cannot escape it, for she has no answer.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I tried to make the epilogue longer but it just didn't want to be longer! Perhaps this ending doesn't satisfy? It seemed to me to be the only reasonable way to end this tale. Francis and Mary are happy. Catherine is back. No one can know what will come their way next. You can choose for history to tell what truly happened between these two or you can make up your own ending ...

Thank you all for coming on this epic journey with me. It has been quite something, to be sure, seeing as how I just wanted to do a one-shot of Francis post-1x08! I'll be taking a much-needed break from writing to focus on some other things while the show is still on hiatus, but I'm always up for any great ideas you might want to shoot my way via PM. Please review and let me know what you think of the story and how it ends. :)


End file.
